Prussia's Very Bad Idea
by OddLittleBrit
Summary: Also entitled "Nothing Says Fun Like Stealing a Wheelchair" - Prussia's (not so) brilliant idea to steal a wheelchair leads to all manner of shenanigans for the trio that is himself, France and Spain. Then England gets pulled in and even more stuff goes down. It's all fun and games with the Bad Touch Trio! A BTT fic, that could be FrUK if you wanted. Enjoy!


**AN: So basically, I saw a wheelchair, and one funny get conversation later, this was born. No offence meant to anyone at all, apologies if it does - it's just the BTT having some fun with England :3**

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia's not mine**

**Note: ~~~~ - means a timeskip**

* * *

In France's defense, it had been Prussia's idea. In fact, you could even say it was Spain's, for deciding to go out drinking to that exact location, on that particular weekend. You could go as far as saying it was England's fault, because he bothered to see what was going on. But then you might get a boot to the head, because england doesn't like getting the blame. Or remembering the events of 'that night' at all. Anyway, you're probably wondering _what _was so-and-so's fault, the answer to which the writer shall now divulge.

It began one warm afternoon and as the trio of friends; France, Prussia and Spain, all poured from the World Conference, relishing in Spain's sunny climate.

"Ah, spain, bro, this is awesome! The night is young, the air is cool," Prussia said, looking over at a table of women in the café opposite. "And the chicks are hot," he purred, waving at the pretty one who was watching him. "We're so going out tonight."

Spain chuckled "I know a pretty decent bar only a few minutes from here, if Franny's all done with his boyfriend?" England sent the Spaniard a withering look, and marched off to the hotel. France laughed, loudly, and shook his head, blonde hair bouncing flamboyantly. (Let's face it, the whole man is flamboyant). "Sure, 'e'll wait up for me anyways."

And so, after changing into something a little more sexy than uniform, the three suave nations made their way to a bar full of pretty woman and good drinks. Spain happily translated for them, rather than have Prussia butcher his precious language, while France found them seats next to some lovely Spanish ladies. The alcohol was flowing, as was the Frenchman's charm, and in a matter of hours, all three were, well. Hammered. Sloshed. Intoxicated. Drunk as skunks: whichever way you look at it, they were most certainly not sober. The bar eventually closed, much to Prussia's despair, and the three tumbled out into the streets.

It was quiet, something which disgusted the trio a lot. "We should go haaaa-have some fun!" Spain chirped, and France agreed, and the two set off in search of entertainment. They had stumbled halfway down the road when they realised they had lost their Prussian friend, and looped back around to find him. He was stood, mesmerised by a shop window, or more specifically, what was behind the window.

"Nothing," he said with a smirk "Says 'fun' more than stealing a wheelchair/"

Spain and France looked at him like he was insane. "Is that really a good idea?" France thought aloud, getting a pout in return.

"Come on Fraaaaance," Prussia sang, and the Frenchman sighed. "Fine, moron."

The writer won't go into detail about how they actually proceeded to steal the wheelchair, only that it involved France declaring his 'husband' needed urgent assistance picking out a shirt, while Spain craftily took the chair from it's place.

"Brilliant," the Prussian declared as he had Spain wheel him around, France looking on like a disheartened parent... for about five minutes before he decided _he _wanted a go.

"In fact..." he mused as Prussia sped him along the dusty pavement. "Let's 'ave some fun, oui?" He quickly murmured him plan into the waiting ears of his friends, before they set the plan in motion.

It was only a short while later that they arrived back at the hotel, face pain, wheelchair and a large bottle of syrup (stolen from Canada's room while he was off in search of food) in hand. They piled into Spain's empty room, devious smirks on their faces as the set to work.

Spain stood at the bathroom sink, stirring the messy concoction happily as he hummed to himself, Prussia began mixing the yellow and green paints, and France was saying a last goodbye to his shirt.

"It's... it's for the greater good, non? You were such a pretty shirt... I love yo-"

"Hey bros, I'm done!" Prussia called, the perfect palette in his hands, grabbing the attention of the other two. Spain wandered out, large bowl (where _had _he got it from?) in hand.

"Si, and I have finished this too, amigos!" he added cheerily. France looked up from his shirt and grinned.

"Then we begin..."

"England! England!" Spain yelled breathlessly, hammering on room 221 (England is picky about where he stays) so fast, he almost punched the Brit on the face when he opened the door.

"What is it?" he asked, stifling a yawn - it was only 4AM by now. Spain grabbed the mans shoulders, "It's France! Come on amigo, you have to come!"

England's bleary eyes shot open, but he was still unsure as to what the Spanish man was actually on about. "What? Is he in jail again? I told him, no streaking, they don't think it's funny-"

"No! England, he's hurt!" Spain gabbled, already heading down the hallway again. "Come to the foyer!"

"What?!" England yelped, then ran a hand over his face. "Fine, sure, let me get dressed I'll be one second," he called back, turning to dig out some more acceptable clothes (believe it or not, England sleeps in nothing but his underwear in these hot climates). He tugged on a pair of trousers from the chair, and slid yesterdays shirt over his shoulders, buttoning it as he moved. He took the stair two as a time as he jogged down the stairs, regretting the decision not to put any shoes on - the marble flooring was cold.

Prussia was awaiting Spain's return. He had France sat in the wheelchair, and after paying the nice receptionist enough to keep her out, their plan was foolproof. France looked at him, eyes glowing mischievously and grinned.

"This is be brilliant," he said, just as Spain toppled into the foyer.

"He's coming down the stairs now, quick! Look sadder Gil," he added, as he got in position.

Soon.

England could hear someone groaning as he reached the foyer. Someone was speaking incredibly fast, in a terrible mix of French and English, and... German?

"France? Can you hear me? Vous, uh, écouter? France? Don't die on me, arsch! You've gotta stay awake!"

England's feet sped up as he jumped the last few steps, and he gasped.

"Prussia, what ha- my God!"

France was slumped in a wheel chair, looking very un-alive. Prussia was looming over him, France's head in his hands as the Frenchman blinked wearily. His lips opened, only for him to start coughing.

"England?" Prussia asked, head whipping around to see him. His wide eyes bored into the English nation, drawing him closer.

"You're here!" Spain said, looking up. "Look!" England scooted even closer, nudging Prussia out of the way. His mouth dropped open when he had a good look at the French nation. There was crimson dripping from virtually everywhere, his nose, his head - and a large rip in his shirt revealed even more of the sticky red substance. What looked like the beginning of a bruise, a nasty yellow colour, stretched from the tip of his nose, across his cheek and up to his temple on the whole of his right side. Looking down at France's legs, which were poking out of a pair of tan shorts, England found them to be bent at a very odd angle, and tinged red too.

England took ahold of the Frenchman's chin, only to have him jerk it out of his hand with a whimper. "N-non, that 'urts," he said, opening his eyes slowly. England's calm exterior masked the screaming mess he had become on the inside, only his furrowed brow and from a sign that he was worried - though it was his usual expression around France anyway. Still, he couldn't hide his voice, which try as he might to stop it, still wavered slightly as he spoke.

"France? What happened? Are you okay? Stupid question, obviously - but what _happened?!" _he asked, one hand on France's shoulder.

"W-we... were a-attacked..." France breathed, before doubling over. "France?!" England yelled, as Prussia and Spain looked on. He grabbed the mans shoulders once more, hauling him up. France had screwed up his face, and even started crying as England knelt closer to him.

"Eng...land!"

"France?

"I... my 'ead..." he moaned softly, glancing into England's eyes.

"It's alright France," he said unusually softly, "I'll stop it..."

They were alight with worry, kindness and... love? Or something akin to it at least. For almost a second, France felt bad. Then England gently moved his left hand up, to the mark on France's cheekbone.

As he rested his long fingers lightly on France's pale features though, his fingers slipped. His eyebrows quirking, England pulled back his hand to inspect it. The yellow, what he had guessed to be a bruise, came off on his fingers, leaving them tainted a very odd colour. He peered at it for a moment, before it clocked, and France's face fell.

"You..."

Oh dear.

"**You ****_git! _****What kind of ridiculous trick is this, huh?**" he yelled, standing up and staring down at France, who had begun cowering in the wheelchair. "**THAT'S NOT FUNNY! I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT, YOU STUPID FROG! COME HERE AND I'LL GIVE YOU A REAL BRUISE!**" he continued, as Prussia and Spain doubled over laughing. Thinking they were safe, they continued laughing, as England stalked evermore closer to them.

"And **you **two! You think you're getting away scot-free?** Get over here!**" he ordered, grabbing them both by their collars. "Bloody idiots," he said, bashing their heads together. He dropped them rather unceremoniously and spun back around to France, who had leapt from the wheelchair and made for the stairs. Yet the Englishman was faster, at least when in pursuit, and tackled him to the ground. France toppled over, and very ungraceful (much to his shame afterwards) landed flat on his back on the cold floor. He lay dazed for a minute, as England stood up and brushed himself off. He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to straighten it. He glanced around the room, at the gasping French nation, and the semi-conscious Prussian and Spanish men.

"Well gentlemen," he said, straightening his collar. "This was fun. Goodnight."

And with that, he spun on his heel and went back to his room, and went on to have a comfortable morning, while the trio of nations in the lobby struggled to even make it back to their own rooms. They eventually toppled onto France's bed, and all woke up with severe headaches. Needless to say, when all four nations were awake, they refused to acknowledge what had even happened, until England subtly reminded them he'd floored all three of them...

...which leads us back to the argument of who started the whole fiasco.


End file.
